Beginning, Previous Section, Section III, Next Section
Posted on Friday, 2 November 2007
As a girl, the youngest Miss Gardiner had had the good fortune to catch the eye of a well-settled barrister in Meryton. Upon taking possession of her new name and station, Mrs. Philips had enjoyed all the glories of being first to marry and keeping a house of her own.
When her sister Frances wed one Thomas Bennet of Longbourn, however, the triumph of her matrimonial success was sadly diminished. Being of a similar disposition to Mrs. Bennet, Mrs. Philips was rather too aware of the distinction between lawyer and landed gentleman, and had spent much of her time since engaged in a determined effort to best her elder sister with the superiority of her skills as wife and mother. One of her favored methods was the hosting of inordinately lavish card parties, which were well-received in the area for their sheer abundance of food, dancing, and gossip.
Nothing pleased Mrs. Philips more than to reap the fruits of a successful evening; each word of praise from her guests made the exertion and expense inconsequential. Neither was she burdened with any discord at home – Mr. Philips, terminally dull and unable to deny his wife anything that did not put him too much out of pocket, allowed her the final say when it came to her evening fêtes.
In possession of this history and the assorted facts therein, Elizabeth knew, as the family rode to Mrs. Philips’s, that it promised to be a long, dreary night. She was not much of a card player herself, and having heard from Lady Lucas that Charlotte was at home with a slight head-cold, she was even denied the reprieve of friendly company.
Pretending to listen to Kitty’s latest accounting of the various gallantries they had received at the village, Elizabeth found herself envying her father, who was presently ensconced in his study in comfort and solitude. Nothing short of a pistol to the head could have induced Mr. Bennet into voluntarily – or involuntarily, as the case may be – spending five or six hours in the combined company of his wife and sister-in-law in a house which had no library or billiard room in which to escape.
“...and mayhap we’ll find a beau for you too, Lizzy,” Lydia was saying, even as Elizabeth realized she was being addressed, and had been for several minutes past. It made little difference; Lydia seldom required a reply as long as she could listen to her own voice. “Captain Carter said he thought you were almost as pretty as Jane.”
“‘Almost’ is better than ‘not at all,’ I suppose,” Elizabeth said dryly. “Thank you, Lydia, but don’t trouble yourself.”
“You ought to be thinking of it more, Lizzy, or you’ll be as much of an old maid as Jane. Lord, how ashamed I’d be to still not be married by two-and-twenty!”
“Are you sure, Lizzy?” Kitty said anxiously. “One of Carter’s friends would be more than happy to oblige us. What would you do if you had no partner for the reels?”
“I thank you too, Kitty, but I’m not much in the mood for dancing tonight.”
Lydia looked faintly bewildered, but presently giggled and elbowed her sister smartly in the ribs. “La, all the more for us, then!”
A disdainful snort issued from Mary’s direction.
Within a few more minutes, the carriage pulled directly in front of the Philipses’. The chatter and bustle around the door proclaimed that the gathering was to be as much of a crush as ever, particularly more so with the addition of a few dozen officers. Elizabeth followed her mother and sisters inside – the small parlor was crammed with people, while those in need of some air had spilled out onto the side-terrace, and the remainder had squeezed themselves into the array of chairs scattered about the parlor and hall.
Aunt Philips came to greet them; her pleasure in her accomplishments made her amiable, and she could even overlook Mrs. Bennet’s officious advice on how best to arrange the throng of guests. Elizabeth dutifully kissed her aunt and then her uncle with greater hesitance – for there is nothing so bad as having stale port wine breathed upon one – and took a seat with Jane at a whist table as Mrs. Philips had suggested.
She cast a glance around the room while Jane shuffled the cards and waited for the other guests to join them. The Bingley party was just now coming through the door – a quick perusal of the faces confirmed that two particular people were absent. Although she hadn’t really expected their attendance, Elizabeth found she was disappointed nonetheless.
The look of blushing delight on Jane’s countenance as Mr. Bingley hastened toward them made Elizabeth resolve to find some excuse to bring them back to Netherfield – it had been too long since she had seen Mr. Darcy and his sister. She was almost alarmed at how often her thoughts turned to them...or rather, to him. Such a fixation simply wasn’t natural, no matter how intriguing a figure inspired it; she wondered, with a sort of sheepish hope, if he found himself thinking of her as kindly as she did of him – and then she thought of her family’s behavior, and those hopes died a swift death.
Mr. Bingley took the seat next to Jane; his sister sank reluctantly into the chair by Elizabeth.
“Good evening, ladies!” He beamed at them as he took up the cards Jane dealt him. “What great good luck that we should arrive soon enough to share your table. I hope the day finds you well?”
“Very well, sir,” Jane said softly, handing the rest of the cards to a frowning Miss Bingley. “And you?”
“Capital – or I am now.” His boyish grin was so wide that Elizabeth half expected it to reach around and cover up his ears.
Miss Bingley rolled her eyes and rapped her brother’s arm with her ornately-painted fan. “Think you might attend to the game, Charles? That is why we’re here, you may recall.” She cast a sour look over at Elizabeth. “Your aunt was quite insistent that we would come tonight; it does not last beyond an hour, does it?”
The rudeness only entertained her. “You have been misinformed; my aunt and uncle are very fond of cards. Sometimes the party lasts into the long hours of the night.” The starkly-contrasted expressions on the faces of the Bingleys made Elizabeth bite her lip to suppress a laugh. How was it that these two could possibly be related?
The cards were laid out, and the most disorganized game of whist Elizabeth had ever played in her life commenced. As it went along, she wondered with amusement whether they were even playing whist any more at all, so little did the moves made resemble the rules. Mr. Bingley could not seem to focus; he mislaid his cards, forgot his turn, and talked so much as to make everyone lose their concentration, but he managed to do it all with such self-effacing merriment as made it impossible for Elizabeth to regret his inclusion into the party.
In any case, he was certainly a more agreeable partner than his sister, who played with efficient, cold silence and only spoke to rebuke her brother for a missed turn or comment on a badly-dealt move. She did, however, bemoan once that absence of the other members of her household; Elizabeth’s attention was unwillingly garnered by the sound of the name ‘Darcy.’
“It is a great pity that you could not persuade Mr. Darcy and Georgiana to accompany us, Charles,” she announced. “It would have been best to be out again. Even if others would not support them...” A scorching glance was directed to the Bennet girls, “...their friends would certainly have championed them.”
“Darcy doesn’t need a champion,” Bingley said lightly. “Besides, you know he and Miss Darcy don’t like cards. A loss for them, I suppose, but we must bear up under the absence of their company. Try not to let yourself grieve too much, Caroline.”
Elizabeth was rather surprised by the touch of asperity in his tone, and apparently so was his sister, for she turned her eyes back to the table and said nothing more on the subject. Elizabeth’s curiosity, on the other hand, got the best of her, and before she thought about how it would sound, she blurted, “How is everyone at Netherfield, Mr. Bingley?”
He looked momentarily surprised. “It’s curious that you should say that, for the Darcys made me promise that I would inquire about you for their sake.”
Elizabeth could feel the heat of Miss Bingley’s glare from across the table. “It is good of them to ask,” she said lamely, hoping she wasn’t reddening. “I...I hope to see th...Miss Darcy soon.”
“She sends along her wishes to see you too,” he replied, now smiling openly, “and Darcy sends his regards to your family. And before I forget: they’re both quite well, Miss Elizabeth. Have no uneasiness on that account.”
“For heaven’s sake, Charles,” Miss Bingley snapped. “Would you have us sit here all night? We are at whist, are we not? Let us play it, then.”
Elizabeth could have sworn she saw a suggestion of a smirk on Bingley’s face as he obeyed his sister’s dictates and laid down his cards. Hmm...I suppose even the amiable ones can take pleasure in some well-deserved vindictiveness...
As soon as the fifth round had come to a rather confused end, Elizabeth excused herself from the table, wanting to walk a little to relieve the tedium of the game and the stiffness in her rear-end caused by the unyielding wooden chairs. She left the group with no compunctions, sure that Mr. Bingley would ably protect Jane from any of Miss Bingley’s barbs.
She steered clear of the table at which her mother and the other matrons sat; in the hallway she found Mary crammed into a corner, frowning at the couples who were already dancing in the drawing room. The elderly gentleman sitting next to her vacated his seat at the summons of a friend, and Elizabeth took his spot, leaning back against the wall as a crowd of ladies pressed into the parlor.
No sooner had she settled her skirts around her than Kitty came rushing up and grabbed her arm. “I’ve found him!”
Elizabeth winced as her sister’s nails bit into her skin. “Found who?”
“Your beau,” she giggled.
“Unless I make him fall in love with me first,” Lydia announced, coming up to join them, “and I very well might. He could even charm Mother Mary if he put his mind to it – if she could put down her sermons long enough to look at him.”
This earned her yet another glower from her sister.
“He’s twice as handsome as Denny,” Kitty agreed. She tugged on Elizabeth’s elbow. “Hurry, Lizzy; come and meet him.”
Elizabeth came to the realization that she had only two options: follow her sister and be introduced to this man, or let Kitty detach her arm in the attempt. “If you wish it; but you mustn’t say another word about this. I won’t have you trying to match-make.”
The threat was ignored, and Kitty hurried her off to the drawing room, Lydia fast on their heels. They dodged the dancing couples and went to a small chaise-longue by the window. Elizabeth’s eyes fell upon a young man standing before it, gazing out into the street. His brown-gold hair shone with unnatural brightness in the lamplight – too much pomade, perhaps? – and his form was trim and of an average height, neatly surrounded by the brilliant scarlet coat and gold tassels of a lieutenant.
“Wickham!” Lydia called heedlessly, rushing around her sisters to go to his side.
The officer turned around, and Elizabeth began to understand the reason for Kitty’s enthusiasm. He was a handsome man – those deep blue eyes and finely-cut features could make any girl’s heart skip a beat. Good-humor lingered in his eyes and about his smile; he looked agreeable and more than willing to oblige the wish for an introduction.
“This is my sister that I told you about,” Kitty said. “Lizzy, this is Lieutenant Wickham; Wickham, this is Elizabeth.”
“Miss Elizabeth.” Mr. Wickham bowed over her gloved hand. “A pleasure.”
“Likewise.” Elizabeth intended to extend a few pleasantries before returning directly to the parlor; she had little desire to flirt or watch her sisters flirt for her. Kitty had other ideas: with surprising strength, she disguised a hearty shove under the cover of a nudge, and Elizabeth had no choice but to sit on the sofa. Lydia immediately sat next to her, patting the cushion at her side. “Come and sit with us, Wickham.”
Mr. Wickham did as she directed. Lydia looked satisfied by his close proximity, but Kitty’s displeasure was evident in the set of her expression.
“Have you been long in the militia, Mr. Wickham?” Elizabeth asked, more out of a desire to prevent any public quarreling between her sisters than any interest.
“Only three years,” he said mildly, “but I have been under Colonel Forster for two.”
“Are you pleased with your stationing in Hertfordshire?”
“I like it very well,” he said. “Everyone has been most gracious and welcoming.”
Elizabeth watched Lydia hang on his every word and thought perhaps it was indeed possible to be too welcoming. “I see. And do you plan to stay long?” Only after the question left her mouth did she realize how it came across.
He laughed. “Eager to be rid of us, Miss Elizabeth?”
“I assure you that is not what I meant, sir. I was only wondering whether the regiment would remain here all throughout the winter.”
“At present, the colonel believes we shall not stay on beyond March,” he said, more seriously. “So it appears to me, Miss Elizabeth, that you shall have to tolerate us until the spring.”
“Well, I should be glad if you would stay until next winter,” Lydia said. “We could have plenty of good parties and maybe a ball or two, if the militia would stay. There’s nothing to do here without the militia – no one to see and, since Lizzy was so harsh with Mama about the Darcys, nothing to talk about.”
Mr. Wickham’s indulgent smile vanished. “Pardon?”
“Oh, did I not tell you? Lord, it was quite the to-do! Mr. Bingley – you remember me talking about Jane’s beau, don’t you? – rented Netherfield and brought his friends, Mr. and Miss Darcy – Miss Darcy is quite the most uppity girl, too – and we found out that Mr. Darcy was deaf as a doorpost, and the whole town was talking of it for days, and then they went to church and there was a huge uproar, and Lizzy went and shouted at Mama for gossiping, and we haven’t seen either one since.”
Although Elizabeth had trouble following Lydia’s convoluted explanation, Mr. Wickham had no such difficulty. A strange paleness stole under his bronzed complexion; his brows drew together. In a moment, however, he seemed to have recovered.
“Brother and sister, are they?”
This time Elizabeth answered, wanting to keep the talk at a bare minimum. “Yes. Only Mr. Darcy, Miss Darcy, and her companion, Mrs. Younge.” She saw Mr. Wickham startle at the name. “Are you acquainted with her?”
He made a slight, dismissive gesture. “I knew a family in Devonshire called Younge. Perhaps there is some relation. Tell me, have you gone yet with your sisters to watch muster? I have seen Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty there often, but not you or Miss Bennet. Or are you not one for long walks in the morning?”
She smiled in response to the teasing note in his voice. “I am very fond of walking, especially in the morning; but I fear the lure of trees and fields and flowers holds more appeal to me than lines of red-coats, no matter how splendid the color may be.”
He affected a wounded look. “You damage our fragile egos, Miss Elizabeth; everyone knows a soldier’s pride is his uniform.”
Lydia, not liking the fact that she wasn’t included in the conversation, demanded Wickham’s attention and started off on a story about the latest gossip from the camp. Elizabeth saw the opportunity to make her escape and gladly excused herself, walking quickly across the room before Kitty could stop her. Stepping out into the hall, she went back to where Mary was still stationed in the corner, and sank down into the seat with a sigh of heartfelt relief.
Aunt Philips’s card party did indeed last into the late hours of the night, but the lack of sleep didn’t deter Elizabeth from rising early for a walk. She rose and dressed quietly so as not to attract the attention of anyone who might waylay her from her task. Pausing only to sneak a sweet roll and glass of milk from the kitchen, she was out of the house and on her way down the lane before the clock struck seven.
In her hand was a reticule and the History of Herodotus. The excuse for visiting Netherfield had been sitting in her drawer all along. Only the night before had it occurred to her that it was far past due to return to its rightful owner; Mr. Darcy must be wondering about the fate of his book, particularly one that had been given to him for such reasons as were described by the note inside.
More consideration on the identity of the writer had offered no answers and eventually she tired of musing on it. Reading it over had only made the burning curiosity more intense, and she hated the feeling of being controlled by such thoughts. She remembered being amused by Miss Bingley’s jealousy the night before, and suddenly felt the shame of behaving in exactly the same manner – and with no more than an initial to go on.
Her walk was agreeable enough; it had rained well in the early hours of the morning, and the air had begun to take on a chill to signal the approach of winter. Elizabeth had high hopes for a good snowfall. There was nothing she liked so much as bundling up and blazing a trail through a fresh layer of thick snow, the trees as sparkling white as the ground around them.
Wishes for an early winter were interrupted by the crunch of boots on the leaves behind her. She pivoted too quickly and nearly slipped on the damp ground. A hand grasped her arm to prevent her from slipping and easily set her upright. It wasn’t necessary to look up to identify who had helped her – the touch of those hands was already familiar.
“I seem to be very accident prone of late,” she said conversationally, smiling up at Mr. Darcy as she straightened her bonnet. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “W-what b-b-brings you out s-so early, Miss B-Bennet?”
“I love this season and morning is always best for walks during it. But I have another reason.” She held out the book. “I apologize for keeping this so long. It must have gotten placed in my trunk by mistake.”
“I h-had wondered w-where that went.” He accepted the heavy volume gratefully. “I th-thank you for ret-turning it. D-did you r-read it?”
“Parts of it. I thought the description of Acarnania was particularly fascinating.” She watched him tuck the book under his knee-length black coat to shield it from the misty air. “Is it one of your favorites?”
“I-it is. I-I’ve had it f-for many years.”
“It must be very dear to you,” she prodded.
He smiled a little, as if he knew exactly what she doing. “I-it was a g-gift f-from a dear f-friend. Of c-course I t-treasure it.”
Elizabeth colored, torn between irritation and amazement that he could read her intentions so effortlessly. “I assumed it must be so.” She changed the subject. "I noticed you were not at my aunt's party last night; I was sure she sent an open invitation to Netherfield."
Mr. Darcy looked as though he wished to say something, but didn't know how best to phrase it. His feelings were expressed by an elegant shrug of his shoulders. "C-Circumstances p-prevented our a-attendance, Miss B-Bennet."
"Oh. I thought perhaps after the church...well, my aunt isn't in the habit of inviting men like Mr. Simmons. I should have mentioned that beforehand."
"It isn't t-that. A-Another...m-matter...has arisen w-which required us to st-stay at N-Netherfield."
A horrible suspicion seized her. "Were you threatened?" she demanded, indignation emanating from her tone and stance. "How dare they! Have you reported it?"
She paused as she saw him grin -- one of those rare smiles that gave her a glimpse of his white teeth. "I am g-grateful for your c-c-concern, Miss B-Bennet, but there is no n-need for it. We h-have not been th-threatened."
Elizabeth felt rather foolish at her reaction; ashamed, she looked away. The unexpected touch of his fingers on her cheek startled her, and she saw that he was still smiling, a warmth in his eyes. "I am n-not l-laughing at y-you."
"It would serve me right if you did. I've always been too impetuous." She resisted the urge to reach up and lay her hand against her cheek; she swore she could still feel the heat of his fingers pressed against it.“Are you returning to Netherfield?”
“S-soon; I only w-wanted to st-stretch my l-legs a l-little.”
“Would Miss Darcy appreciate my company, do you think? Since I’m almost halfway there already, it would be rude to come this far and not call.” She shook her head. “Truth be told, I’d like to visit with her again. It has been too long since we spoke last.”
“I-I’m sure G-Georgiana would l-love to see you ag-again.” He offered her his arm, opened his mouth, and then seemed to hesitate. “S-She misses you.” His eyes were grave as he watched her, willing her to read behind his words.
Elizabeth glanced up at him and understood. A new, unfamiliar joy lifted her heart; she held his gaze steadily, trying to keep from trembling as she replied softly, “I know how she feels, sir, for I assure you, I miss her too.”
Posted on Friday, 9 November 2007
In all his eight-and-twenty years on earth, Fitzwilliam Darcy had never experienced any great revolutions in the course of his convictions and opinions. The world was to him a place of natural beauty, inhabited by a populace as predictable as it was oftentimes cruel. The nature of man was no mystery in his eyes; the emotions that raged inside his own breast mirrored the breadth of responses he met with in his fellows.
It was the fate of a man of his kind – destined to be forever the same and yet different in the most basic of ways. He was one of them, as much a being of intellect and feeling as the rest, but always kept apart by the constraints of his own body.
Oh, it could have been worse, he knew. With a better understanding of the ways of those around him, he had come to realize how fortunate he had been. His parents had not abandoned him to an asylum or a solitary life under lock and key at home, although such practices were common enough and considered sound legally and morally. Education had been offered to him even when there was little hope of his benefitting from it.
The chance that his father had taken in choosing to raise his son as heir would never be thought of with ingratitude. Whether it was paternal affection or familial pride which had motivated old Mr. Darcy’s decision is not certain – but it matters not in view of the results that came from it. The gift of life is very precious in its own right, but being allowed to live life is a treasure of immeasurable worth. Of what use is the body and the force that animates it if we cannot take part in the joys and sorrows around us? If the spirit is repressed, what pleasure can be found in living?
Darcy, perhaps of a rather philosophical nature himself, had not left these thoughts un-pondered. Had he not been taught as a child – had he been left to grow and live almost as a wild creature, unable to communicate or understand, kept within Pemberley’s walls as surely as any beast within a cage – he often wondered whether he might simply have gone mad from it. It was a dreadful thing to contemplate, but he had heard of it enough in talks about the asylums which were likely more accurate than anyone would care to believe.
He had listened to stories about institutionalized men who were blind or mute or mad, who raged against the walls of their cells until their fingers were bruised and broken, screaming day and night in tones so bloodcurdling as to unnerve even the most hardened wardens; men who talked to themselves or the empty air and laughed at nothing; men who had killed attendants or themselves in a fit of demented hysteria....all this Darcy had heard. The narratives had served almost as cautionary tales. As a child, the fear of being sent to one of those hell-houses kept him focused on his studies. The threat of the asylums was enough to ensure that even the most restless boy would stay on course with his schoolwork.
And school had been another kettle of fish entirely. At Pemberley, where the family generally spent the summer months, there was a lightness and gaiety in everything that was absent in Town. But for his studies with Kelley, to him London was an unpleasant place with smoggy air unfit to breathe and crowded chaos so unlike the serenity of the country.
They lived in the townhouse out of necessity, but Darcy could never repine the opportunities that had been given to him in the city, nor could he ever be anything but grateful for the schooling that he had received at the Academy. Kelley, a deaf-mute himself, had taught him how to thrive in a world that could all too easily cripple him instead; Darcy had learned so much more than just how to sign and write – he had learned how to view himself in a way which could allow him to keep from bowing under the weight of disapproval.
Mr. Kelley’s views were considered peculiar by many. Even the Darcys’ old family rector had repeatedly warned old Mr. Darcy about the dangers of allowing his son to feel himself too much a part of society; false expectations would crush too many hopes, he had warned. Don’t let the boy get an ego on him. It will only cause more problems for him if he tries to stir things up among the people. Make him grateful for what he has, and do not encourage him to seek out anything more.
His aunt Catherine had particularly impressed the point upon him. She had often declared that he was a most fortunate child to have been kept on by his father when George Darcy so clearly had the right to a more capable heir. He should thank God on bended knee, she had said, that he had been shown such kindness and condescension, whether he deserved the favor or not.
The memory of that little pearl of wisdom even now brought a humorless smile to Darcy’s lips. It had been especially ironic for his aunt to have given him such advice – she had been one of the strongest supporters of the notion of placing him into an institution. Lady Catherine de Bourgh had a regard for duty that far overshadowed her more tender feelings. Fitzwilliam might have been her nephew...but he also was an object of mortification to her finely-honed sense of propriety. It was not great struggle for her to choose between the two.
He could recall exactly when he had discovered that sorry truth, remembered the scene all too vividly; the words as fresh in his mind as if they had been written there. Dishonor, Anne! Do you not understand what you have wrought upon us? The noble house of Darcy, with ancient and worthy bloodlines back to the Normans and William the Conqueror himself, to be presided over by an idiot? You would have us the laughingstock of our neighbors! If you let this happen, the Fitzwilliams and de Bourghs will be brought down by your son. Better you would have let him die of fever than allow him now to heap shame upon our heads!
Even now, nearly twenty years later, the words still had the power to wound – but it had been for the best. His aunt had always assumed him a simpleton and did not put much store in the notion of lipreading, and speaking those words to his mother right before him had put no burden on her conscience. Fortunately for her, Lady Catherine had also been blessed with a very keen ability for forgetting convenient details, and so was able to go on in her hypocrisy with perfect ease.
This allowed her to grudgingly name her nephew as her own once old Mr. Darcy announced that his son would be sent to the Academy in London and not to an institution. Family discord – and the resultant scandal that came from it – was too much for Lady Catherine’s sensibilities, and outwardly she addressed him as she did all others. Appearances must be kept up at all costs; there was nothing more detestable to her than becoming the subject of the ton’s wagging tongues, and so in public, Darcy was her ‘dearest nephew’ and a welcomed guest at Rosings Park every Easter.
But he was always made to feel what he owed – his aunt demanded it of him. Above all things, she liked to remind him that children should be full of humility and appreciation. Not a day over those long yearly visits didn’t provoke some new comment on the goodness of his elders and her graciousness in taking him in...all the while ensuring that he was kept carefully segregated from her other guests, her daughter, and even the servants.
And so his journeys to Aunt Catherine’s culminated in his having been secluded in his rooms for the most part of the day, seeing only his valet, Anne, and Richard, if the latter’s visit happened to coincide with his own. It might have been unbearable if not for them; the three had begun life as cousins and had quickly become friends. Perhaps the situation of each demanded some source of commiseration and consolation. It was not unnatural that those two should have befriended Darcy, deaf though he was. Colonel Fitzwilliam had long been disinclined to believe any opinion over his own, and Anne, sweet, lonely girl that she was, had simply not been able to hold his difficulty against him, no matter how her mother seemed to rail on the point.
Darcy would always be glad of the friendship he had enjoyed with them. Those nights, all those years ago, when the three would slink out into one deserted room or another to talk and tease and laugh until they were shooed out at daybreak by an irate maidservant, were still memories he mused upon with particular fondness.
But, as with all things, changes occurred. The passing of time necessitated that it should do so. Anne was gone, dead some four years, along with the babe she had perished attempting to deliver.
It was well-known that Lady Catherine had grand schemes of matrimony for Anne, and before Darcy’s illness, she had made it clear that she was in favor of an alliance between the Darcy heir and her daughter. After the deafness had eliminated that possibility, the woman had found her options considerably less than ideal. The earl’s eldest son was already married, and Richard was a second son without any expectation of fortune. As Anne aged with no signs of attracting a suitor on the merit of her charms – or dowry – alone, Lady Catherine selected one herself instead. Her choice was an indolent, very wealthy baronet from Staffordshire, some ten years Anne’s senior but yet quite hearty.
Sir Joseph had been a kindly enough man, and Anne had not the willpower to resist her mother’s insistence. The two were wed, and the new Lady Anne Ceverglen had not been unhappy with her husband; the expectation of an heir only added to her pleasure. But that joy was soon dampened by serious complications. Anne had always been of a delicate, often sickly constitution, and the burden of a child was too much. Her death – and that of her stillborn daughter – was yet another episode in a family history marred with tragedy.
Darcy missed her still; there had been a gentleness, a luminosity, in Anne like that of her namesake – and that he had only just begun to see in the lovely features of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Although she had forced herself not to become overly anxious about her brother’s mind-set and whereabouts, Georgiana would never be completely free from worry; and in this instance, the concern drew her from her chamber in search of him. He had been absent at the noon meal and had not come to the library for their usual game of chess at three. A discreet inquiry to Phipps had yielded no information about his location either, and beginning to feel the first real pangs of distress, she moved instead from room to room, directing the occasional question to the servants.
One of the footmen was able to assist her – he reported that Mr. Darcy had been out in the stables earlier and might have gone for a ride. Georgiana rather doubted it, as the two of them always informed each other when they planned to take the horses out; it was a rule laid in stone. Fitzwilliam wanted to ensure that, should something happen, there would always be someone who knew where they were and what they were about.
Nevertheless, Georgiana followed the young manservant’s direction and went out to the stables. The small outer building was not so pleasant as that at Pemberley, but she thought Mr. Bingley had done well with his selection of horseflesh, considering that he had only just acquired a place to house them.
The grizzled stable-master greeted her at the door. “Can I ‘elp ye, Missus?”
“I wondered if Mr. Darcy might have been here.”
“Oh, aye.” The man tugged at his ragged brown cap. “‘E took out Juno jest a few ‘ours back – mighty tough old buck, that Juno is. Reckoned Master might well break his neck ridin’ the beast, and I told Mr. Darcy so, but he would ride ‘im anyway. ‘E has a way with ‘orses, he does. Don’t believe I’ve seen Juno be so courteous-like afore.”
Georgiana smiled at the backhanded compliment. “I see Juno is not in his stall yet – do you happen to know which direction my brother may have gone?”
“North pastures yonder.” He pointed a gnarled finger to his left. “Should I saddle up Buttons for ye?”
“Please do, and don’t bother with a sidesaddle. I have no patience for one today, and I’m not dressed for it in any case.”
A lad went to fetch and harness the piebald mare, and in no time at all, Georgiana was mounted and headed down into the northern fields. Mr. Bingley’s acreage was actually quite extensive, and the well-tended grazing land made an ideal place for smooth riding. Among the endless, sweeping expanse of autumn gold and brown, it was not difficult to spot the pearly-white of Juno’s coat, nor the darker shades of the human figure a small distance away from the horse. Something must have alerted Darcy to her presence, for he turned and waved a hand in welcome.
Georgiana spurred Buttons forward, the mingled relief at finding her brother safe and the exhilaration of a fine gallop serving to supply her with a new burst of energy. She pulled the mare up beside him; Juno snorted at the intruders, but his rider, who had been writing industriously in a small notepad, offered her a grin.
It was a weak attempt. Georgiana slid off Buttons and tipped back her bonnet to get a closer look at her brother’s face. A brief perusal was all she needed: he was having one of his dark moods again, but the lines in his brow and around his eyes spoke more of reflection than resentment. As to what brought it on, she couldn’t guess; he had seemed cheerful enough over the breakfast hour, but then she was also aware that memories needed little persuasion to present themselves in the forefront of the mind when least expected.
He looked serene at the moment as he sat in the long grass, his hat and coat lying in a pile by his feet, pen and paper perched on one indrawn knee.
She looped Buttons’s reins around a nearby fencepost. “Will I disturb you?”
Darcy squinted against the glare of the sun on her face and drew her to the side so that he might be able to see her. She repeated the question; he shook his head and unfurled his coat onto the grass, patting it in invitation. She sat down, tucking her feet under her as she reached for his hand.
“I w-worried you,” he said quietly, setting the paper aside. “F-Forgive m-me.”
She tightened her grip to reassure him that all was forgotten, but the grimace that answered her gesture made her release him in haste. “What? What is it?”
He didn’t say anything at first, but when she continued to press him for an explanation, he held out one hand. “L-Look.”
She took his wrist gingerly, leaning close until she saw it: the middle joints of each finger were badly swollen, almost knotted in appearance, the lower segment of the digits red and inflamed. Turning his hand over, she saw that even his palms were cracked, almost as if he had submerged them into boiling water and let them dry in the air. The other hand was in no better condition.
“Do they pain you very much?” she said in a hushed voice, taking note of how he winced as he fisted his hand.
There was no point in lying. “V-Very much.”
She continued to study the disfigured hand with a mixture of fascination and horror. “What brought it on? Too much signing?”
“P-Partly. Th-This l-letter writing p-probably h-hasn’t helped.”
“It was hurting before?”
He nodded.
“Then why in heaven’s name did you use them so much if they were paining you? Fitzwilliam Darcy, where is your head?”
Her frustration drew a smile to his lips. “I m-mustn’t be an in-invalid; but h-have no f-fear. I will h-have Ph-Phipps help me wrap th-these hands t-t-tonight. They should be b-better by morning. They al-always are.”
Georgiana glanced at the stiff fingers and shook her head. “You ought to have the apothecary look at them. You cannot lose your fingers – not those.”
He suppressed a grin at the note of reproach in her voice. “It is n-not so b-b-bad as that. Dr. T-Teckel d-described it as n-nothing more than rh-rheumatism. The ap-plication of h-heat should b-be beneficial. D-Don’t worry.”
“Was fear of my fussing enough to send you hiding out here?”
He laughed then – it was a dry, rasping sound, but to her it had always been as music to the ears. “I c-came to th-think.” As soon as he made the reply, the phrasing triggered a memory of a conversation during yesterday’s walk with Miss Bennet.
“And do you often make your escape by coming out here to ramble, Mr. Darcy?”
“W-When I can. It h-helps me th-think.”
“You cannot think at Netherfield?”
“You know w-what I say – and M-Miss B-Bingley’s company is n-not always c-c-conducive t-to introspection.”
Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled. “I suspect you ponder the mysteries of life too often as it is, sir. Leave such musings to the Aristotles and Voltaires of the world; I am sure Miss Darcy would not wish to see her brother become old and eccentric before his time.”
“P-Perhaps not old, but eccent-tric is a t-title that a p-p-person can hardly h-help earning. I w-would not b-be surprised was I c-considered s-such already.”
“You have not earned that distinction yet, I think – you are only merely a little odd now, but with hard work you may have an opportunity to be considered properly eccentric.” Elizabeth winced as soon as the words left her mouth, wondering if she had been too free with her speech; she did not know yet what he might take offense at.
He startled her with a faint chuckle. “You d-do h-humble me, Miss B-Bennet. I shall t-t-take care n-not to be too c-confident of my own abilities f-from this d-day hence.”
“You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?”
Georgiana’s question made him look up guiltily. He was becoming all-too easily distracted of late, especially with meditations about the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman could bestow.
His sister saw the color rise in his cheeks and wondered at it. She too had enjoyed the brief visit with Miss Elizabeth only the day before. The call had been interrupted by Miss Bingley, who had soon managed to break up the party by the sheer determination of her incivility and the delight she took in dispensing it liberally to all. Georgiana had regretted the interference and wished to be privy to her brother’s thoughts on the matter; but she had refrained from asking him outright. It would not sit well with her to add to his concerns with observations of her own which could be entirely wrong.
“I am.” He turned troubled eyes in her direction. “Wh-What are your thoughts? I c-cannot be impartial in th-this matter.”
“Observations including her family, or not?”
He looked as though he wished to smile but knew it to be impolitic. “N-Not.”
She eyed him keenly. “I believe you are already acquainted with my views on that subject. Do you really need my approval, Fitzwilliam?”
“N-No, but I should l-like it all the s-same.”
“And if I didn’t approve?” she asked curiously.
He contemplated that query for a moment. “I c-cannot say. It w-would certainly g-give me p-p-pause. I t-trust your judgment. You are v-very astute.”
The commendation surprised her; he had never been particularly generous with compliments.
“All th-that aside, it’s n-not a m-matter of what I f-feel – it’s what she f-feels.”
“What does she feel?”
“I h-hardly know. I’m n-no expert on c-courtship.”
Georgiana rose, brushed off her skirts, and went over to soothe Buttons, who was shying fretfully. Turning to peer over her shoulder, she said mildly, “Then perhaps, Brother, you had best find out yourself.”
Posted on Friday, 16 November 2007
Flirting could be a dreadfully dull business. Or rather more accurately, being the recipient of charming attentions from a person one neither found particularly desirable or even interesting could prove to be a trial beyond compare.
Elizabeth became a firm believer in this little axiom after an evening’s worth of bearing adulation and awkward compliments from the very reverent Reverend William Collins – her cousin and the heir apparent to Longbourn, just lately arrived from his parsonage in Kent for a se’nnight’s visit.
Mr. Collins’s intentions to impose upon his relations’ hospitality had been as much of a surprise to Mr. Bennet as to any of them; the relationship between the late Mr. Collins – an illiberal and illiterate man – and the master of Longbourn had never been friendly, but it seemed that the heir wished to make things right, or, as he so eloquently phrased it in his letter apprising the family of his upcoming visit, “to extend an olive branch for the objective of peace and prosperity between two houses long suffering from the effects of needless contention.”
Loquaciousness of the written word aside, Mr. Bennet foresaw little promise of merit in the man who was to be his successor, and the prospect was mightily welcome. Had Mr. Collins’s manner of address hinted at a keen intelligence or spectacular powers of wit and sagacity, Mr. Bennet might have felt the young man more of a threat to the peace he enjoyed at Longbourn and his comfortable position as master of it. A clever inheritor could cause considerable problems before and after the patriarch’s death – a stupid one was of little concern to anybody, having no potential for mischief greater than causing some vexation among the more intellectually-sound.
The pomposity and high-flown language of Mr. Collins’s letters suggested that their author was a man of weak understanding as well as miserly habits, and possessed of a rather unhealthy idolization for the woman who had seen him set into his present position as the rector of Hunsford parsonage: a certain Lady Catherine de Bourgh, of whom he was unable to say enough. If he was to be believed, his patroness was a paragon of virtue and Christian charity, with a never-ending supply of wisdom, benevolence, and condescension. Were it not for the fact that to do so would surely result in accusations of blasphemy, Mr. Collins might very well have argued that her Ladyship was a creature of divinity comparable to the Lord Himself.
Mr. Bennet, always a connoisseur of folly and foibles in his friends and neighbors, was eager to see what ridiculousness Mr. Collins might be able to offer him – and thus it was with anticipation that he awaited the arrival of his cousin that Monday morning.
Elizabeth was somewhat more cautious, having gathered for herself from the style of Mr. Collins’s correspondence that he was unlikely to add to their table either congenial conversation or elegance of bearing. Jane was in good-humor and ready to welcome any guest, but even her complacent smiles would be unable to countermand the determined grimness of Mrs. Bennet’s countenance.
The matron had long since nursed a deep resentment against Mr. Collins, a man whom she had never seen nor spoken to, but who she was convinced was the worst sort of villain. No amount of reasoning could convince her of the legal suitability of entailment; as the Bennets had no sons, the line must pass through someone. Exactly who hardly mattered to Mrs. Bennet – the very fact that the house and a large part of its furnishings would be taken away upon her husband’s demise was the only thing that mattered in her mind, and it was more than enough to condemn Mr. Collins from the start.
His appearance did little to mitigate that impression. Upon embarking the sturdy curricle that had carried him from Kent to Hertfordshire, Mr. Collins presented his small greeting party with a less-than-imposing figure. He was of a tall, disproportionately stout build, with a round, grave face and straight, almost lank brown hair – not precisely the picture of youthful fitness. That solidified every prejudice in Kitty and Lydia’s eyes: his being a clergyman had not been such a terrible deterrent to the former especially, if only he had had looks to compensate for his profession, but as it was clear that he did not, they did not bother themselves to spare him a second glance.
The method he chose to introduce himself did nothing to bolster his attractiveness. A solemn little speech detailing the graceful loveliness of the girls had prefaced each bow Mr. Collins made to his five cousins, and his attentions to Mr. and Mrs. Bennet were no less garrulous or lacking in sincerity.
Mr. Bennet had ushered his guest into the house amid many exclamations of gratitude from the gentleman, and his praise was so copious as to even soften Mrs. Bennet’s hard feelings in some slight degree. Mr. Collins himself was quite in the throes of delight, not only from the tidy comfort of his future home, but also from the beauty of Miss Bennet. He had come to Longbourn to bridge the gap of familial relations but also hurried forth for reasons more personal in nature. Lady Catherine had expounded many times on the necessity of his finding a wife to set an example for his parish, and it had come to him that choosing a bride from among his Bennet cousins might serve his patroness’s purpose as well as to mend things at Longbourn.
And with what joy did he find that his idea would have such agreeable results! Miss Bennet was surely the fairest creature he had ever laid eyes on, and with a single-mindedness perhaps not entirely appropriate for a clergyman, he resolved to woo his cousin, assuring himself that it was due to her as the eldest.
When Mrs. Bennet understood, not halfway into the first evening meal, that Mr. Collins was considering a marriage within the family, all her grudges fell away in the exciting prospect of a match; she was in full agreement with the notion – and she voiced her consent eagerly and repeatedly. Which one he chose hardly mattered to her, but when it became apparent that Jane was in his sights, she felt herself obliged to lightly drop a hint that her oldest daughter was soon to become engaged to another.
Mr. Collins was disappointed, but it did not take long for him to transfer his affections. Miss Elizabeth was next in age as well as beauty – a most agreeable alternative. His purpose was settled before he had spent two days full at Longbourn; Miss Elizabeth had been selected as the fortunate woman with whom he would grace his name.
With a destination in mind, Mr. Collins immediately launched into the subtle venture of courtship.
Elizabeth could not be unaware of his sudden preference for her company, and understanding from some smug remarks from her mother what he intended to do, she felt more irritation than alarm at his attentions. The unctuous parson could speak of nothing but his humble abode in Kent and the beneficent notice he received on a daily basis from Lady Catherine. Elizabeth was not inclined to credit any of it: careful interpretation of what he said led her to conclude that Her Ladyship hardly was the nonpareil he made her out to be – indeed, she sounded like a perfect terror.
She was diplomatic enough, however, not to make this observation in front of him.
That week was one of the longest Elizabeth had ever endured, although it included a pleasant visit with Miss Darcy in Meryton which had afforded her an opportunity to inquire after Mr. Darcy. Miss Darcy reported nothing to give Elizabeth concern, and she was even so good as to drop a hint that another call by the two eldest Bennets would be more than welcome to the gentlemen at Netherfield. This promising line of conversation had been interrupted with habitual obliviousness by Mr. Collins, who had determinedly trailed his cousins to Meryton despite having been urged not to risk his health by coming out into the chill morning air for such a long stroll. He assured the girls that he was remarkably hale, and it was his obvious duty besides to look after them – as to what sort of mischief might befall them on a well-traveled road they had walked hundreds of time before was less clear.
In any case, Elizabeth had regretted his obsequious presence then, and had further regretted it upon seeing his reaction to being introduced to Miss Darcy.
“Miss Darcy?” he had exclaimed, pausing mid-bow to stare at the young woman. “Miss Darcy – Miss Darcy of the Pemberley Darcys?”
The girl had directed an uncertain look at Elizabeth, and, receiving but a helpless shrug from her friend, turned back to the parson. “I am she.”
Mr. Collins rocked back on his heels, face awash in astonishment. “Cousin Elizabeth, do you not know who this young lady is?”
“Indeed I do, sir,” Elizabeth didn’t bother to conceal the note of irritation in her voice, “or I would not have been able to introduce you to her.”
Miss Darcy bit back a smile.
Distress strained Mr. Collins’s integrating smile. “You will excuse me, madam,” he said, genuflecting impressively before he rose and grasped Elizabeth’s arm. He pulled her a few feet away, just out of Miss Darcy’s hearing. “That is Miss Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire, Cousin Elizabeth,” he continued in a half-whisper. “The niece of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
Niece of Lady Catherine? Elizabeth twisted around to glance back at Miss Darcy, who was watching them both with a puzzled look on her face. Something the girl had once said suddenly popped into her thoughts: Even my own aunt is ashamed to speak of him and tries to downplay our connection. Elizabeth looked reluctantly back at her cousin, who was waiting for her to express a proper amount of amazement at the coincidental relationship.
“Well?” he demanded, when she didn’t answer quickly enough to suit him. “What think you?”
I think your precious Lady Catherine really is a terror. Elizabeth regretfully let the words go by unvoiced – now was neither the time nor the place to start up a scene. “I think that Miss Darcy must be wondering why we left so suddenly. Shall we not return to her? We would not wish her to believe us rude.”
Mr. Collins was appropriately horrified by the thought of insulting anyone connected to his patroness, and he hastened back to Miss Darcy’s side, apologizing profusely for his unconscionable neglect. His utter superfluity of words made Elizabeth cut the visit short out of a desire to spare herself and Miss Darcy the embarrassment of the parson’s sycophantic manners, and the two ladies went their separate ways – Miss Darcy to the comfort at Netherfield and the company of her brother, and Elizabeth to the unwelcome prospect of more prattle all the way down the suddenly never-ending road back to Longbourn...and she knew upon arriving home that the vexation would not cease.
Mr. Collins’s marked attentions were a source of great amusement to others in the house, including Mr. Bennet himself. He laughed off Elizabeth’s annoyance, assuring her that the hapless parson would eventually tire of the pursuit; of that, Elizabeth was less certain. The man was a fool, surely, but not undetermined when it came to something that Lady Catherine had demanded of him. Lydia teased her mercilessly, and Kitty was merely relieved that she had not been singled out by their cousin; Mary had chosen to give Elizabeth an impromptu lecture on the virtues of patience.
Only Jane gently sympathized with her situation and urged her sister to exercise some caution in her dealings with the man. To be sure, Mr. Collins was perhaps not a model of male excellence, but he must have some feelings, and Jane was most adamantly opposed to outright rejection: she counseled Elizabeth to be kind, for there could be no purpose in mortifying the man’s pride.
Elizabeth, although privately of the opinion that there was indeed a purpose in it, did as Jane suggested and bore her cousin’s fellowship as best she could. After several days of cool indifference in which his ardor was diminished little – indeed, his determination to win her approval only seemed to increase – a slight desperation had taken hold of her. She longed to give him a proper set-down...but then she wondered if harsh words would do any good at all. For a man as obliviously confident as he was, her rejection would probably seem to him merely a bit of coquetry, of such as was the practice of elegant females. If anything, it might serve to make him even more intent upon the chase.
She shuddered at the mere thought. Perseverance and imbecility were never a good combination.
The beleaguered Elizabeth was given some small respite from this ridiculous charade on Friday afternoon when Lydia burst into the parlor, three rather sheepish-looking officers in tow. “Look who I have brought to join us for tea, Mama!” she exclaimed proudly, like a child eagerly displaying some paltry accomplishment. “I happened upon them just as I was leaving Meryton. Was I not clever to secure us such fine company?”
“Clever indeed, my dear,” Mrs. Bennet said with genuine pleasure – she still, as she had once declared, retained a special fondness for a red-coat. The gentlemen thanked her for her hospitality, and Captain Carter apologized for intruding without a prior invitation, still looking rather uncomfortable. Elizabeth tried not to smile at his expression; she knew how impossibly persuasive Lydia could be when she wished it. Whether with tears or arguments or honeyed words, she certainly knew how to sway the most unyielding disciplinarian.
The officers came inside and settled down while Mary rang for tea. The captain and Lieutenant Denny took seats by a smiling Kitty, and Elizabeth found herself next to the third officer: Lieutenant Wickham, who was looking very debonair in his parade uniform and black shoulder-cape.
“You have sorely offended me, Miss Bennet,” he said quietly, while Lydia launched off on a loud accounting of her morning.
Elizabeth turned to him with surprise, and then noticed the smile tugging at his lips. She replied in tones equally serious, “Pray, what have I done to cause offense, sir?”
“I have yet to see you at muster with your sisters. Nothing could have kept you busy for five mornings in a row, so I must conclude that it is a deliberate slight.”
“I slight no one, I assure you,” she said, unable to keep from smiling in return – his good humor was infectious. “We have had company.”
As if summoned by those words, Mr. Collins chose that moment to appear in the parlor. Mrs. Bennet introduced him promptly, and the parson, who considered association with officers of upper rank perfectly acceptable for a man of his standing, was quite effusive in his welcome, speaking at such length about the honorable institution of serving God and country – indeed, he surely would have made a fine officer himself, had he not been called to the Church to be of service to the august Lady Catherine de Bourgh – that even Mrs. Bennet, who had the highest regard for her hopefully soon-to-be son-in-law, began to look displeased.
Although he was too obtuse to realize that he was the cause of it, Mr. Collins did eventually detect the less-than-enthralled expressions on the faces of his listeners. Deciding that jealousy was at the heart of it, he regretfully ceased all talk of his patroness.
Mrs. Bennet bade him sit and take some tea, but Lydia and Kitty, finding nothing agreeable in the thought of their cousin’s discourse for the next hour, made an escape into the garden with Denny and Captain Carter. Mr. Wickham declined their offer to join them, and cheerfully engaged Elizabeth in a private discussion of the plays to be seen in Town; and as he had only just returned from London, his vivid descriptions of the stage and actors held her spellbound.
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, had acquired himself some refreshment, and, quite satisfied with himself and all the hints he had dropped about his situation, found his mood spoilt when he noticed Elizabeth involved in an intimate tête-à-tête with the lieutenant. Ignoring the empty seat next to Mary, Mr. Collins resolutely fetched a chair from the nearby table and dragged it over next to the sofa where his cousin and the lieutenant sat, planting himself securely at Elizabeth’s side. Mr. Wickham’s arched brows rose at the gesture.
“Do you not join the others in their exercise, sir?” the officer asked with the utmost politeness. “The weather is fair, even if the wind rises a bit high.”
“I am content to sit here,” Mr. Collins said stoutly. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh is of the opinion that too much air does ill to the humors.”
“Oh, certainly. In fact, I believe the wind looks more intense than I had supposed; there is even a chill in here, and Miss Bennet is not dressed warmly.”
Mr. Collins affected a look of great concern. “Is that so?”
“Perhaps you might require a wrap,” Mr. Wickham said smoothly. “It would not do for you to catch a chill, Miss Elizabeth.”
“I shall fetch it,” Mr. Collins exclaimed, very nearly upsetting his chair in his haste to rise. “Where is it, Cousin Elizabeth? I shall certainly fetch it for you directly.” He had one leg set before the other, as if he anticipated the officer would engage him in a footrace to retrieve the lady’s garment.
Elizabeth bit back a giggle at the display but wisely remained silent. Mr. Wickham’s face gave no hint as to the amusement that lingered about his eyes. “I would imagine it is among the coats in the morning parlor, is it not? I believe I have seen Miss Elizabeth wearing it before. It is a silk shawl, light green in color, with large yellow daises embroidered on the edge and gold tassels on the seams. You should find it right away – and if you cannot, I will certainly lend you my assistance, for I am sure I can identify it.”
“Your help won’t be required,” the rector announced, already halfway out the door. “I can find it myself with all possible haste. Indeed, I shall be absent but a moment; I have often been complimented on my fleetness of foot.”
And with that parting proclamation, he was gone. Mr. Wickham turned to Elizabeth, who was now laughing outright. “You do not actually have a green wrap, do you?”
Still snickering, she could only shake her head.
“Then that task should keep him occupied for a good half-hour, if we are lucky.” He held out his arm gallantly. “Come. Shall we walk in the garden?”
Elizabeth rose and took his proffered arm gladly. Gratitude for his assistance and a considerable amount of admiration for his cleverness made her charitable, and she walked the length of the hedgerow in complete enjoyment of his company. He talked of his travels in the militia with such vigor and humor as to prove himself capable of turning even dull, dry topics into something fascinating. Quite the charmer, Elizabeth thought, smiling inwardly. No wonder Lydia is so wild for him.
After exhausting the topics of weather, amusements in London, and the situation in France, Mr. Wickham inquired whether she often went into Meryton. “If you do not come there to see us, you certainly go for the shops.”
“Oh?”
“I noticed you in the dressmaker’s a few days back, speaking with a dark-haired lady. I recognized your cousin – or I do now – but I don’t think I have been introduced to the young lady yet. A friend of yours?”
Elizabeth hesitated, but seeing nothing to make her uneasy in his looks, she replied, “She is Miss Darcy; she stays at Netherfield with the Bingleys.”
Something flickered across Mr. Wickham’s face, but it was there and gone before Elizabeth could decipher what it meant. His next words surprised her. “She appears much altered since I saw her last. I did not recognize her.”
“You know Miss Darcy?”
He nodded.
“But when Lydia spoke of them before, you did not claim any prior acquaintance.”
His gaze sharpened on her. “My father was old Mr. Darcy’s steward,” he said slowly. “I lived at Pemberley when I was a boy.”
The wistful way he said it made Elizabeth suspect that he had not returned to the great house after his boyhood had passed by. There was a silence fraught with uncertainty before Mr. Wickham said, “Do you know Darcy as well?”
Elizabeth felt herself blush. “A little.”
His expression, when he turned to face her again, was very solemn. “I would entreat you not to further the acquaintance, Miss Elizabeth...for the sake of your own safety.”
She wrenched her arm from his grasp so hastily that she nearly tripped. "What?"
"Darcy isn't a man a young lady like yourself should associate with," he said carefully. "I say this not to offend you, but because he may prove a danger -- to you."
Astonishment stole Elizabeth’s speech from her – but only for a moment. “You lie!” The exclamation flew from her lips before she could stop it; she clapped a hand over her mouth, shocked at what she had said.
A hardness settled over Wickham’s countenance. “I grew up with him,” he said coldly, “and I saw him become what he is today. I beg of you, Miss Bennet, be cautious around him.” He inhaled deeply, paused, and lowered his voice. “I have seen him be taken by violent fits and strange, unnatural doings not fit for a lady’s ears. I have no wish to distress you, but you must take heed – you must be careful.”
Elizabeth stared at him, dazed. “I have seen nothing of this....”
His voice softened. “I would not expect that you have. He has learned to conceal it well.”
She struggled to catch her breath. “It?”
There was a dreadful pause. Mr. Wickham’s eyes held hers; she found herself unable to look away from him. Finally he spoke, and the succinct words were terrible in their condemning finality. “The madness, Miss Bennet.”
It had been quiet at Netherfield all afternoon. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst had gone to Meryton for an appointment at the dressmaker’s, and thither also went Mr. Hurst, undoubtedly for an less respectable appointment at the local tavern.
Mr. Bingley had unhappily resigned himself to a day of attending neglected paperwork, so the Darcys retired to the library to play a few games of chess. Darcy was distracted and played poorly – so much so that his sister won the first round within a mere quarter-hour. Georgiana was pleased to wrest away one victory from her brother, but the abstraction that caused it gave her no reprieve from her anxiety. He was not behaving like himself, and she wished that he might confide in her some small part of his troubles – but he did not. All maneuvers for information were met with gentle but implacable rebuffs.
Four more games, better executed by both players, were finished and thoroughly analyzed by the time the carriage bearing the rest of the party back from Meryton arrived. Miss Bingley, always one to observe the proprieties, kept the supper hour at seven despite the lateness of their return, and everyone barely had enough time to change before the soup course was laid out.
Georgiana listened to the Bingley sisters discuss in painstaking detail the trim and fit of their new gowns, and pushed listlessly at her plate; and she was not the only one. She saw that Mr. Bingley was jabbing at his roasted beef with a vengeance, yet all the while she watched, he never took a bite – once or twice, she could have sworn she even saw him glare at it as though it had insulted him. Miss Bingley, although she spoke readily enough, also bore a piqued look. It didn’t take much effort for Georgiana to draw her own conclusions.
Her suspicions were confirmed when Mr. Bingley finally chose to address his guests. “I’ve decided to have a ball here at Netherfield for our neighbors, perhaps sometime soon. What say you, Miss Darcy? Caroline,” – this was said in a tone of rare censure – “seems to think the effort is unnecessary. Amusement is never unnecessary, I say. If I have the means to give pleasure to my friends, why should I not do it?”
Georgiana almost laughed at the stubborn expression on her host’s countenance. Indeed, she would not dare disagree when faced with such fierce resolve. “I think it a wonderful idea.”
“A-as d-do I.”
All conversation stopped at this softly-voiced concurrence from Mr. Darcy; even Mr. Hurst looked up from his plate to stare in amazement. Georgiana saw her brother color a little under their scrutiny, but his words, when he next spoke, were no less strong. “W-When d-do you int-tend to h-hold it, B-Bingley?”
“I’ve set no date,” Bingley replied, recovering swiftly from the unexpected support. “But sometime in the next fortnight or so, I hope.”
Darcy nodded, and the table again fell silent. Miss Bingley, who had probably already felt the sting of her brother’s reproach earlier in the day on the subject, did not attempt to argue. She let the mention of further plans pass by, with only a comment of, “Miss Darcy is not yet out. Surely it is not fair to...”
“I shall watch the dancing quite contentedly,” Georgiana declared, cutting off the start of a quarrel at its beginning. “I will dance a few sets with Fitzwilliam, if he will do me the honor.”
“You’ll dance, Darcy?” Mr. Bingley inquired, his eyes widening. “Can you?”
Darcy smiled a little, and Georgiana said, “Who do you think taught me to dance, sir?”
The instant dinner was completed, most the party retired, claiming exhaustion from their various pursuits, and Mr. Hurst was already asleep on one of the sofas. The Darcys said their goodnights and climbed the stairs together, their thoughts divergent, yet somehow on the same general subject. “A ball at Netherfield,” Georgiana mused with a shake of her head as she followed her brother down the hall. “Fancy that.”
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve